Perchance To Dream
by arrenallwise
Summary: A hotel night, after Dean has confessed what he did in Hell.
Perchance to Dream

by Arren

The small motel glowed in the near distance. Through the cold fog, the pinks and greens of the neon lit the heavy air around the sign and the lights that outlined the roof until it glowed; an oasis of light and color in the inky darkness.

Sam glanced at his brother, slumped silently in the passenger seat, staring at the dashboard, or the floorboard, or his feet, Sam couldn't be sure. "I think we should stop, okay?". His eyes flickered to the road for a moment, then back. "Dean?"

Dean's eyes closed, then opened sluggishly. He drew in a deep breath as if just remembering he needed to, "Yeah, okay."

Dean sat in the car while Sam checked them in and then pulled the car to park in front of the room. Sam went in and flicked on the lights and the ancient heater before returning to the car to help unload. Dean had already opened the trunk and was pulling out bags and weapons.

Sam shouldered his bag, slammed the trunk and locked the car up tight for the night. There were only three other cars in the parking lot, none of them too close. Dean had moved quitely inside and had disappeared into the bathroom by the time Sam came in and closed the door behind him. The heater was noisily putting out a modium of warm air that smelled like it had not been pressed into service in recent memory.

Dean returned from the bathroom, his face buried in a towel which he ran over his face and hair roughly, then tossed over his shoulder back into the bathroom. "Geez, that heater smells like ass."

"It'll burn off in a few minutes. It probably hasn't been used in awhile." Sam had tossed his bag on the bed, unzipped it and rummaged for something clean to sleep in. He hadn't bathed, slept or changed clothes for going on three days and his hair felt heavy and wet. "I'm going to clean up, you need to go in there first?"

"Dude," Dean sat on the side of the bed Sam had already claimed, "I just came out of there."

"Whatever, but don't come pounding on the door when you realize you forgot to take a leak." Sam disappeared into the bathroom and closed the door.

Twenty minutes and half a bar of soap later Sam immerged, dressed in his favorite heavy sweats and tee, bare feet slapping on the tiles before he stepped on to the nubby carpet that had probably been shag in better days. His hair was wet but not dripping and combed down and back. He tossed his dirty clothes in the corner and sighed, "Dean...crap," he whispered.

Dean had stretched out on his bed, and had pushed Sam's duffel onto the floor where most of it had spilled out. "You couldn't just...," he muttered as he stooped to salvage his things and stuff them back into the bag. It was no use, Dean was sleeping, and just barely snoring, fully clothed and on top of the garish brown and orange bedspread.

Sam watched him for signs of stirring and finding none, he took his duffel around to the other bed and placed it on the chair beside it. He pulled down the spread, blanket and sheet and crawled under, the cold sheets making him draw up his feet briefly before finally shoving them both back under, turning on his side, and pulling the covers up to this neck. He lay like that for a minute, shivering and staring at nothing. He finally threw back the covers, "Shit!" He swung his long legs off the bed, jammed his hands into his armpits for warmth, and shuffled to the small table where Dean had dumped their weapons bag. He unzipped it and found a box of salt laying on its side on the bottom. He took it out quietly and drew the usual salt lines across each windowsill and the door's threshold.

He set the box on the table and shuffled quickly back to the bed, yanked the chain on the lamp on the way and burrowed under the covers again. He watched Dean for a minute, wondering if he'd sleep through the night. Dean had not slept well since he returned. He had caught cat naps, nodded off over books and in the car, but a real night's sleep had illuded him entirely. When he did sleep deeply enough to dream, he invariably woke with a gasp and did not try again, instead chugging the nearest drink until the shaking stopped.

Today, Sam had learned why.

The confession had drained Dean. It had come out in a torrent, and then dried up just as quickly. Dean had told of the torture in forty years of hell, but it wasn't the thirty years of his own torture that broke him now. It was the ten of torturing other souls.

All his life, Sam had known his brother to be the one that took the brunt of life, so that others could be saved. He had given up any semblance of a normal life to save others, and to save his family. Even when Sam abandoned his family and had run away, Dean had stayed to fight.

Sam had often wondered if Heaven was a person's own personal Paradise, tailor made for whatever would make that person most happy. Not everyone could be content forever sitting on clouds, playing harps Some people might find Heaven to be the farm where they grew up, with their family and their favorite long-ago dog for company. For some it might be a library stocked with endless books, comfortable chairs, whisky and cigars, where you stay forever reading through the ages. For some, it would be reuniting with the loved ones that went before.

If Heaven could be that, then why couldn't Hell be as well? If there was one thing that would be most hellish for Dean, it would be loosing himself, becoming what he hunted. Becoming evil, brutal and and preying on those that needed his protection. The guilt and self-loathing would haunt him and become his own personal Hell.

Sam realized his pillow was damp where the tears had run down the side of his face and dripped. He heaved himself up, turned his pillow over and jammed it back under his head.

The air shifted. There was no noise, no light, but suddenly, he was there. He stood over Dean's bed, watching him, but he spoke directly to Sam without looking at him.

"He told you." His voice was barely above a whisper, yet Sam could hear him perfectly.

Sam swung his feet to the floor. The room was no longer cold and dark. There was light that did not come from the lamp or the outside, and warmth that the heater could not have provided on its best day.

"He told me some," Sam replied, "but I think there's more."

Castiel lifted his eyes from Dean, to meet Sam's. "There is."

Their eyes held for a minute, Sam not sure if this was real. Castiel's eyes held more sadness, more understanding, and more wisdom than Sam could comprehend in a lifetime.

"Can you help him?"

"What would you like, Sam?"

Sam dropped his head and squeezed his eyes shut. A tear escaped and he quickly swiped it away. His throat constricted and he swallowed hard several times before he spoke.

"I'm watching him die all over again. He's killing himself, and I can't help him." He raised his head again and looked first at Dean, and then turned his direct gaze to Castiel's blue eyes that held his. "I want my brother back. I want him to forget."

Castiel's eyes held his for another moment, then he turned and bent over Dean. He placed a hand lightly on Dean's head and peered into the sleeping face. "It won't be all at once. It will fade away gradually, like a dream that hovers just out of reach, and soon you can't remember. You know you dreamed, but there is no substance, nothing that will bring you back to it." He removed his hand, straightened up and turned away.

"Goodbye, Sam."

Sam stood. "Wait." He reached out a hand as if to physically stop his leaving. "Thank you."

Castiel turned to look one last time at Dean, and then turned to his brother. "It wasn't for you."

"I know. But thank you."

"Rise 'n shine, Sammy! Gotta get on the road!"

Sam startled, sitting bolt upright in the bed just as a heavy weight fell over his legs. "Dammit, Dean," he huffed as he shoved the bag off his legs and threw the covers back. "What the hell time is it?"

"It's o-ten-fifteen and we've got exactly fifteen minutes to check out of this crap hole and get to that diner before they stop serving breakfast so get your ass out of bed and move it!" Dean pointed to the stand-up sign on the bedside table advertising the diner across the street and their Sunriser Breakfast Special for guests of the Motor Inn. "When do you ever sleep this late anyway? I thought you were dead when I woke up and you hadn't played Mary Sunshine in my face yet. Must be gettin' old, grandma," he threw back over his shoulder as he picked up his own bag and headed for the door.

"Guess we both needed the sleep." Sam rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and watched as Dean went out to the car, leaving the door open.

Sam laughed out loud as his brother's rich baritone carried back inside at full volume, "C'mon, Samantha, move your ass! We're burnin' daylight."

The full sun had burned away the fog and warmed the day far beyond what Sam had thought possible the night before.


End file.
